Monday, May 16, 2011

Like the Count of Monte Cristo emerging triumphant from a bodybag flung out to sea, I am writing to you today from inside the cozy purple walls of Bostonia—having miraculously survived the dreaded Finals Week & thus officially graduated to Upperclassmanship. More importantly, I can now look forward to a summer of reading & sleeping & Photoshopping with young'uns—&, indeed, reviving my long-flagging Blogsmanship.

Though I have a bevy of entries fizzing at the tips of my fingers—from hardcore philosophical musings to gushing over certain actors' preeminent hotness—I feel like it's appropriate, as a smooth transition from this most brutal of sleepless paper-splosions, to post the playlist that buoyed me through this past week—which, in my humble estimation, is pretty clutch. Without further ado:

My Name is:

Jukebox graduate. Post-collegiate. Recovering anemophobic, fresh off the boat with a dance belt & a tube of chapstick. An alligator, a mama-papa comin' for you. Unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death—or, you know, between old West Wing episodes & showertime Ramones renditions. Turn-ons: Poe stories, sparkly things; turn-offs: self-proclaimed audiophiles, Twitter. Lifelong ambition: to write a book for the 33 1/3 Series—&/or marry Eddie Izzard.
In someone else's words: "I am a confused musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music—except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing—so I type. These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god."